Julie was shocked by how wrong she had gotten it, seeing preadolescent autonomy where there was actually bizarre and flagrant motherly rejection, but there was no time to send Peter so much as a sympathetic glance. Martha suddenly pointed to a window, then grabbed Julie’s hand. “Come on! We’re going to miss it.”
Peter closed his door with a kick so hard, it rattled in its frame.
Chapter Forty
Martha took the stairs at a run, flinging open her front door and going out to the porch. She stepped over Depot’s huge form, nimble for such an imposing woman, and dropped down on the splashy floral-print cushion of a rocking chair, gesturing Julie to the plaid surface of another rocker.
The bowl of grass in front of the house was edged by a perimeter of scraggly trees. Julie followed Martha’s gaze. The sun was departing from the sky, its peach and violet streaks muted compared to the colors inside.
“I used to watch this display every single night before we moved,” Martha said. “Whether it was clear or cloudy. Here the trees conceal things, interrupt the vista. But I trust you are enjoying our view?”
“Yes, it’s stunning,” Julie responded. She wasn’t sure whether to express thanks or remorse for having appropriated it.
Martha smiled, apparently satisfied. “Would you care for a drink as we watch?”
“No,” Julie said, meaning yes, picturing the drink Martha might’ve poured, and giving a helpless, unwitting flick of her tongue.
Martha shifted her gaze, just briefly, to send her a curious glance.
Julie licked her lips. “I mean, thank you. But just getting to see this is enough.”
“There it goes.” Martha let her eyes fall shut.
The final hues were fading from between webbed branches.
“One moment there, the next gone,” Martha continued. “It’s hard to believe that something so crucial, and bright, and present can be no more, just like that, isn’t it?”
She had just put into words exactly what Julie felt like after Hedley had died. If Martha was talking about her late husband, then Julie could imagine feeling a spasm of sympathy for the woman, a first faint tremor of connection.
“It’s a loss,” she said, hoping her words wouldn’t miss the mark. “A small one every day. Maybe it’s supposed to help us prepare for the worse ones.”
Peter came outside then, shirtless and barefoot, and crouched down beside Depot, stroking his flank as the dog twitched in sleep.
“Doesn’t work that way, though,” Martha said after a moment. “Nothing can prepare you for all that you lose along the way. Especially those of us who have had everything taken.”
The glimmer of connection instantly retracted. Everything? The woman still had a son to raise, which was more than some parents wound up with. Martha kept such a close eye on Peter, and yet her rejection of him could be cruel, cold as a splash of seawater. It was an extreme version of the push-pull that exemplified this transitional stage of parenting, and it made Julie hesitate to bring up her concerns, lest she worsen the situation. Unless his mother’s periodic spite was causing, somehow incited Peter’s own violence and aggression?
As if following her thoughts, Martha said, “What did you come to see me about, Ms. Weathers?”
Julie snatched a quick peek at Peter, who luckily seemed to be focusing on Depot, rather than listening to the adult conversation. “Peter behaved inappropriately with a bird at school today,” she said in a low tone. “He was aggressive. It was quite worrisome.”
“Is it going to be okay?” Peter asked with interest.
So much for not listening.
If the boy was being deceitful, he was a practiced and adept liar. Of course, someone who could put an innocent pet in jeopardy and try to squeeze the life out of a helpless, injured creature probably would be.
Martha’s unfeeling tone cut like a blade. “A bird.”
“And my dog was taken to your parents’ property yesterday and left at the base of the cliff.” Julie snuck a look at Peter, but the boy appeared unperturbed.
Martha positioned her arms across the shelf of her chest. “Is that the reason for what happened to their pathway? My father was terribly distraught.”
“Well, yes,” Julie replied. It seemed by far the less crucial part of what she’d just said. “I had to go down to get Depot, and I guess that kind of wrecked it.”
Martha flapped a large, elegant hand as if bestowing pardon. “That whole place is in desperate need of attention. Sometimes Peter and I spend the night there, and I dream the bed has disintegrated with me in it.”
It hadn’t looked that bad. The state of grandeur in which Martha had grown up must’ve been extraordinary. Julie tried to think how to circle back to the topic at hand. “Your family has a lot of history on this island.”
No answer.
“That must affect your life here.”
Still silence.
“And also Peter’s.” Julie stole a look at the boy, while Martha remained steadfastly mute. At last Julie said, “I come from a place—and a family—like that.”
Martha tilted her head, regarding her with interest. “Another island?”
“Just a very small town,” Julie replied. “In the mountains actually. My uncle was the police chief, and my grandfather before him.”
“And who’s police chief now?” Martha asked. “Do you have a brother? Or are you planning to leave teaching for law enforcement?”
“No brother,” Julie replied. “But it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t be next in line, and I’m not either, because my uncle lost the position.” She wasn’t sure what compelled her to go on. “Not quite by choice.” The shame of Uncle Vern’s fall, shortcuts his department had taken, even crimes committed at his behest, stained her face like the descending sun had colored the sky.
But Martha’s response didn’t reflect such a state.
“Ah,” she said, staring out at the line of trees. “Then you’re free.”
Her voice so heavy, the words seemed to have physical weight. Peter notched his neck, examining his mother, and even Depot stirred.
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” Julie searched for additional common ground between them, a way to keep the conversation going. “Are you an only child?”
“I had a sister,” Martha replied, focused on the darkening sky.
“I’m so sorry,” Julie exclaimed. What a lot of loss this woman had suffered.
“She’s not dead,” Martha said. “She moved off-island.”
“Oh,” Julie answered.
Martha glanced at her through the twilight. “You’re thinking that isn’t precisely the same thing. Or not the same thing at all.”
It had been exactly what Julie was thinking.
Martha raised her shoulders in a shrug. Her frame was massive, like her mother’s, with real heft to it. Peter was built more lightly; Walter Meyers must’ve been slim.
“But on Mercy it is.”
“Is it?” Julie asked, trying to quell her dismay.
“My sister married a man who wasn’t a lobsterman,” Martha said, as if that should explain things. “He was from away, double whammy. If she’d decided to spend her life with a dragon, that would’ve shocked and upset my mother less. So long as the dragon came from down east and brought in a decent haul every season.”
Martha’s face suddenly contracted; it took Julie a moment to recognize the expression as mirth. A little island humor.
“My mother hasn’t been the same since,” Martha said, rising to her feet. “Family is all important to her. It always has been. So you can understand why I might choose to keep a more watchful eye than some on my son.”
“Of course,” Julie murmured, getting up as well.
“And now I really must say good night,” Martha said. “It’s getting near suppertime, and growing boys
need to eat.”
Julie and Depot had made it to the second Rainbow Pavilion sign when Peter came running up, out of breath and clutching something in his hand.
“Wait!” he panted. “My mom said I could give these to Depot for the walk!”
Martha’s tall form loomed on the porch, observing, alert.
Peter opened his fist, revealing a handful of dog treats, which Depot snuffled up, lathering Peter’s palm with his tongue. Peter let out a laugh, the demon demeanor that had accompanied his squeezing of the bird vanquished for the moment.
But Julie’s insides felt cold, clammy. “Why do you have dog treats?” she asked, fighting to steady her tone. “You don’t have a dog.” But wouldn’t treats be the perfect way to get said animal to follow a relative stranger onto some cliffs?
In her daughter, Julie had seen the kind of untainted sweetness only a child could possess. It had to do with a singularity of emotion, a look that contained one need or feeling or desire, and no other. The plump, unlined skin on a child’s face, so little history there to twist or distort it. But Peter was a different creature entirely, lacking all such childlike purity. His eyes were filled with emotion he strived to conceal, layer upon layer, like strata in the earth, each one more difficult to reach than the last.
He stared at her now with intentional blandness. “My mom said I could buy them last time we were at the store. For the walk you and me were going to take.”
Depot began sniffing Peter’s other hand, then his groin and the rest of his body.
Julie forced a smile. “Well, it looks like you made a good choice. Depot’s hoping you might have some more in your socks.”
Peter chuckled. “I wish I did! Should I go back and get some?” His hand was nestled deep in the dog’s fur, twining strands around his fingers.
“No,” Julie replied. “We have to be getting home now, and so do you.”
Peter’s expression sagged, ridding his face of its carved marble beauty.
Julie turned, but Depot didn’t follow. She looked back to assess the delay, and saw Peter still clutching the dog’s coat with his fist.
“Come on, Deep,” Julie said, hoping the boy would relent without intervention.
Instead, he started to scratch Depot with harsh, rasping fingers, which the dog tolerated, not so much stoically as without apparent disturbance. Depot would’ve been able to free himself from the slight boy’s hold with one heave of his body, so Julie wasn’t worried about her dog, but she did wonder at his level of patience, especially when Peter bore down harder.
Julie hunted Martha out on the porch. The woman stood, statue-like herself, not doing a thing to stop her son or even summon him to the promised meal.
“Peter—” Julie began, mustering authority.
But at that moment the boy finally extricated his hand. Depot loped onto the sandy stretch of road, twitching his head, snapping at the place Peter had stroked.
“See you tomorrow, Ms. Weathers,” Peter called as they set out.
Tendrils of fur, copper and black and ivory, were looped around each of the boy’s fingers as he lifted his hand in a wave.
Chapter Forty-One
Julie walked home with a sick feeling in her gut. She’d witnessed something ugly in Depot’s treatment at Peter’s hands, and yet the boy’s behavior hadn’t suggested any clear course of action, and her dog didn’t appear at all bothered. He and Julie were almost to the house when Depot began to bark wildly, leaping forward before circling back at a run.
“Okay, sure,” Julie told him. “You get to eat first.”
She had just started fishing around for the key when she saw a slight shadow sidle around the back of the house.
“Damn,” she muttered. How did Peter make it back here before she did, especially given Martha’s oversight? It was as though the boy had supernatural powers, some sleight of body that allowed him to Tesser himself or astrally project. “Peter?” Julie called, also beginning to run.
Ellie appeared from the other side of the house.
“Hi there,” she said, walking toward them. “I figured you might’ve gone out for a walk.”
“We had an errand to do first,” Julie called back. Ellie drew closer, and Julie felt herself begin to frown. “Are you okay, El?”
The nickname emerged unprompted. Ellie looked so small and vulnerable, distressed somehow, not like her usual devil-may-care, why-does-anyone-care self.
Ellie lifted one shoulder. “Not really.”
Julie reached out and took her friend’s hand. “Well, come inside.” Could this be about Callum? Had Ellie learned of their mutual drama at sea or, worse, tomorrow night’s dinner? “You can tell me all about it.”
Julie turned back, clicking her fingers so that Depot, who had to be starving, would get off his haunches and close the rest of the distance between himself and the house.
* * *
“I’m sorry I don’t have any wine,” Julie said, once she’d mixed Depot’s wet and dry and filled his water bowl. The dog seemed past the point of eating—tired enough that he simply headed over to his spot by the wall of windows and lay down—so Julie brought his meal to him in there. “But I was going to make some sandwiches.”
Ellie shrugged again. “That’s all right. I’m trying to cut down.” She tried to smile, but it was a pale ghost of her usual grin. “On wine, not sandwiches.”
“You are?” Julie asked, taking out bread and cheese.
Ellie stared at the counter. “I’m always trying to, but this time I got a wake-up call. Hopefully it will stick.” She looked up. “My mom was a drinker.”
Julie assembled two sandwiches and put them on plates, sliding one over to Ellie.
Ellie took a bite. “I think it was to cope with my father being out of the picture. You know—all those long days at sea. Seven days a week in the high season. The fish don’t take days off, as my dad used to say,” she added.
Her mood seemed to be restoring itself as she ate.
“My parents didn’t drink; they were sort of rule followers. My own father had one big rebellion, his choice of a job, but other than that he was by the book,” Julie said. She swallowed a hunk of cheese and bread, before taking a deep breath. “Everyone in his family had a taste for liquor, though. And my ex loved having a drinking partner about as much as I loved being one.”
Julie looked at her friend, and Ellie gazed back.
After a moment, she gave a got-it kind of nod, then said, “Hey, so, just because we’re a couple of nondrinkers, does that mean any sort of liquid refreshment is off the table? Coke, juice, jeez, what are the kids drinking these days, Gatorade? Red Bull?”
Julie smiled, crossing to the fridge. She felt suddenly happier than she had any right to, with a troubled student, a bullying problem at school, and a dog who’d been placed in peril by person or persons unknown. She filled a glass with iced tea from a pitcher and passed it to Ellie. “I could even make some coffee.”
“Well, let’s not go crazy,” Ellie said, tilting the glass to her lips.
They finished their meal and went into the living room. Depot stirred restlessly in a dream, although at least he’d emptied his bowl and wouldn’t wake up famished.
Julie dropped onto the couch, Ellie taking an armchair across from her.
“So what kind of errand did you have to run?” she asked, grimacing when Julie mentioned the Rainbow Pavilion.
Technically, Julie should’ve kept the visit to herself, but Ellie had given her so much valuable information about the island already. Julie wanted her perspective on this.
“I know it, of course,” Ellie said. “All the islanders do. Martha must want them to—posting those signs or flags or whatever. I call her color scheme ‘fuck-you orange.’”
Julie let out a sharp laugh. “What?” she asked, even though she sort of knew, felt the righ
tness of Ellie’s pronouncement. “What do you mean?”
Ellie lifted her legs—too short to reach the floor—and folded them beneath her. “Come on, how in your face is that place? It grabs you by the throat and throttles you. Look at me, look at me, you can’t miss me!”
“I know,” Julie said. “It was positively dazzling. Or dizzying.”
Ellie scowled again. “Did you happen to get a peek inside the grande dame’s house on the night of the party? The mansion Martha grew up in. It’s so lifeless and gray that suddenly all that color begins to make sense.”
“That’s very insightful,” Julie mused. She was learning more about Peter and his family in a few minutes with Ellie than Martha had revealed all evening. Splotches of brightness everywhere, those rabid prints on the walls. That had been a violent boxing match of decor, not anything pleasing to the eye.
Ellie twisted to look through the bank of windows. “Strange family.”
It was the perfect segue. “I really shouldn’t be talking about this, so please keep it between us”—Ellie turned back, looking curious—“but the reason I went over there tonight is because I’m worried about Peter. He’s been involved in a few incidents.”
“Incidents like what?”
It would mean telling Ellie about Callum, which Julie decided to chance. If finding out about them, to the extent that there was a them, was what Ellie had meant by a wake-up call, then this would allow her and Julie to hash things out.
She told Ellie the story of Depot’s unplanned outing, the swim and Callum’s rescue, then concluded with what Peter had done to the bird at school that day.
“Huh,” Ellie said once she’d finished.
Either the role Callum had played, or Julie’s Bad Seed description of Peter, had rendered her usually chatty friend speechless.
“Huh?” Julie echoed, prompting Ellie on.
“Well, first of all, can I just say, Oh. My. God?” Ellie grinned, her natural good humor beginning to resurrect itself. “I mean, way to go, Callum, saving that cutie over there.”
The Second Mother Page 20
